Man In Command
by volley
Summary: Something happened to Enterprise's C.O. out on that hull... something that makes Archer feel he needs to speak to Malcolm. Coda to Minefield


A story from Archer's POV, just for a change. Grateful thanks to RoaringMice for beta reading.

* * *

_What the hell are you doing?!_

Archer flung an arm out, which connected with a soft thing that yelped and jerked aside.

"Sorry, Porthos," he mumbled.

Through bleary eyes he saw the offended beagle jump off the bed and find refuge in his basket. Groaning, Archer slowly turned on his side. The drop in adrenaline combined with a hot shower had betrayed him; he had lain down on his bed with the intention of relaxing only a few minutes, and in the space of seconds had been lost to the world.

Glancing at his watch now he realised that he had, in fact, slept only about one and a half hours. Compliments of his subconscious, which had been 'kind enough' to make him relive the events that had just passed: Malcolm pinned by that mine out on Enterprise's hull and all that had followed. Needless to say, the dream had startled him awake.

Archer lay immobile, still prey to a disturbing sense of doom that only started to ease when he forcefully reminded himself that things had ended up more or less ok.

Certainly what had happened today had tested him as a Captain and a man. He might not have shown it on the outside, but out on that hull, just a few hours before, he had come very close to despair. The feeling had taken him by surprise when victory was already at hand: at the last minute that mine had rearmed itself, shattering his hopes of having the damn thing finally out of the way and his Armoury Officer safely back inside the ship. It was then that he had experienced the choking grip of fear. Fear had transfixed him with the thought that he might really be forced to sacrifice one life for the good of the remaining eighty-three. The right thing to do, on a rational level; an impossible abomination on an emotional one, especially when that life was not an anonymous number but an injured man there in front of you, and you were the one who had to give the order.

Malcolm had not helped one damned bit – Archer thought, with a lot less irritation than he had experienced at the moment, now that things had turned out fine. The man had seemed more than willing to play hero, had insisted that any further delay would endanger Enterprise, and that the piece of hull plating – with its sacrificial victim attached – be cut loose. Ironically, the Lieutenant's acceptance of what looked like his inevitable demise had troubled Archer just as much as if he had screamed out 'I don't want to die!', and only reinforced his determination to find another way out.

Archer let out a soft, ironic snort. Reed's stubborness had found its match: they were both proud, both obstinate. The two of them had more in common than was apparent.

As it was, even in his frantic state, Archer's mind had refused to surrender. _We're wasting time! Help me find a way to get you out of this_, he had ordered Reed; and, in his own drastic way, the Lieutenant had indeed obeyed.

_What the hell are you doing?!_

Archer's muscles clenched automatically at the memory of Reed pulling out his oxygen tubes; of Malcolm's pale face behind the visor, eyes already closing, life alredy slipping away from him. He had cursed the absence of gravity, which had slowed down his movements horribly when he'd have wanted to run.

The image suddenly split and doubled, and the same Officer was sitting, uncomfortable and tongue-tied, at his table that morning. It was difficult to believe that the two images could overlap and form a single one; that the two men – one so staunch and bold, the other so quiet and reserved – were the same person.

Malcolm's attempt to force his hand had suddenly turned Archer's despair into anger. He was going to save the man's sorry ass, if only to prove him wrong.

God, had he been furious…

Now, however, as he lay in the quiet safety of his quarters and considered the events with a calm mind, Archer found very different emotions stirring within him. What he had witnessed was a hell of a show of courage and loyalty. He had always known that in principle Reed considered self-sacrifice as a risk factor in his line of work; he had also secretly hoped that he'd never see him act on that principle. As the images of that shocking moment replayed once again in his mind he couldn't help feeling admiration for the man.

But another feeling was elbowing its way to the surface in Archer's conscience, one that carried with it a bitter taste. Yes, because come to think of it, the anger he had felt... Hell, maybe he owed Malcolm an apology. Phlox had carted the injured man off to sickbay, and they hadn't had a chance to talk, except for that silly repartee in the launch bay, right after being rescued.

Rubbing the tiredness out of his eyes, Archer sat up, throwing his legs out of the bed, and stretched his aching limbs. Porthos immediately lifted his head.

"Going to see how Malcolm is," Archer told him, pushing to his feet. "The Doc said to come by in a couple of hours."

Always eager to go on a foray outside the restricting space of his master's quarters, the beagle jumped to his feet.

"You want to come along?" Smiling, Archer crouched to pet his faithful quadruped. "I'm not sure Phlox will approve, with a patient just out of surgery; but, after all, if he can keep a whole menagerie of creatures in sickbay, I don't see that one more can make much of a difference. Come on."

* * *

A privacy curtain was drawn around one of the biobeds, an eloquent enough sign that Malcolm was through being patched up, but Phlox's reassuring face appearing from behind a separation panel confirmed Archer's assumption.

"There you are, Captain," the Doctor said, approaching. "I was just about to page you. I finished with Mr. Reed not long ago. He'll be fine. He's got a fever, of course – a normal enough reaction, all things considered; but it should be gone in a few hours."

Archer gave an amused lopsided smirk at the Denobulan's cheerfulness. He still had to get entirely used to it. "How's his leg?" he enquired.

"I suppose it could have been much worse." Phlox's eyes shifted briefly down to Porthos. "The bone is intact: the spear went through the muscle, narrowly missing the femoral artery. Mr. Reed has a bit of rehabilitation ahead, though, which I expect he won't like very much."

Archer released some of his residual tension in a liberating chuckle. "No, I'm sure he won't." Turning serious, he added solemnly, "Yes, it could have been much worse," adding in his mind, _he could be_ _drifting away in space on a piece of hull plating_.

Phlox's smile fell too. "Indeed."

"May I see him?" Archer cast a glance towards the drawn curtain.

"Go ahead. He may be dozing, but he's already come round from the anaesthesia; and asked when he'd be going back on duty, of course."

"Of course," Archer echoed, shaking his head. Malcolm was one of a kind.

"Come, Porthos," they both called.

The beagle started following his master, and Archer was already feeling smug when, with subtle tactics, Phlox suggested, "Porthos! Don't you want to keep me company while I grab a bite to eat?" At the mention of food that traitor immediately changed his mind, running back to the Doctor with rather more enthusiasm than he had showed up to now. Archer frowned at the two of them.

"Don't stay too long, Captain," Phlox called happily as they left.

The doors closed behind them and sickbay was suddenly very quiet. Turning towards the privacy curtain, Archer approached with light steps, not wanting to wake Malcolm up should he be sleeping. He pulled the curtain aside, the only sound the soft scrape of its rungs on the rail, metal on metal.

White against the white pillow, Reed lay with his eyes closed. His face showed signs of the trial he'd been through and an IV tube snaked out of one of his arms, feeding a clear liquid into his system; but the sheet rose and fell in regular rhythm as his chest expanded and contracted, and that was really all that counted, as far as Archer was concerned. That and the fact that the ship was safe. He had lost none of the lives that had been entrusted to him. He had not failed.

Failure. Man was so afraid of failure. He was. He _had been_, today; afraid of what he'd consider his worst failure: losing one of his crew.

Had the fear of failure brought Malcolm here, in the middle of the universe, instead of on an ocean? The man's uncomfortable confession rang in his mind. Aqua-phobia... A close-shave with death had accomplished what an invitation for breakfast had not: the sharing of something about him with his Captain. Well, more than just _something_ – Archer amended. Malcolm had to have been convinced he was as good as dead, to reveal that to him.

He was about to turn and go, leaving his Armoury Officer to his well-deserved rest, when the man's breathing got suddenly agitated and an urgent mumbling escaped his lips: something that sounded very muh like _counterclockwise_.

So he wasn't the only one with lingering dreams of their ordeal, Archer mused, stepping inside the enclosure.

Suddenly the grey eyes cracked open and blinked, trying to focus.

"Malcolm?"

Archer took another step, and Reed turned to him, though it took him a moment to react.

"Captain..." he murmured.

He blinked some more, looking a bit confused; but true to his disciplined self soon he was attempting to straighten up. Archer closed the gap and stopped him with a hand on his shoulder.

"Easy, easy," he urged. "I didn't come here to make you snap to attention. Just wanted to know how you were feeling."

"Feeling?" Malcolm slurred. "Who's feeling anything?"

Archer chuckled. "Well, I guess you shouldn't be complaining."

"No, I suppose not," Malcolm agreed hoarsely. His eyelids looked heavy and started to droop closed again, but suddenly, in a flash, they opened fully. "Are we out of danger?" he mumbled tensely. "Have those aliens gone?"

"Yes, yes, though it's more like we limped away from them. We can't travel very fast: that first mine did a lot of damage."

Under the frown that came to crease his brow, Malcolm's grey eyes finally focused, gaze bright with fever.

"Trip still has to get into the decompressed section, but a big chunk of hull is just gone." Archer informed him. He could hear the tiredness in his own voice. It earned him a closer look.

"How about yourself, Sir, how are you feeling?" Malcolm breathed out, sounding a bit more with it. "It wasn't your typical day in the Captain's chair."

Archer pinched the bridge of his nose. "Hell, no, it wasn't." He shrugged. "I'm beat, but ok."

There was a long moment of silence.

Archer was rehearsing in his mind how best to say what he had come to say, when Malcolm spoke again.

"Captain," he muttered, eyes darting back for a moment. "Some of the things that happened, out there… I'm afraid I…" he faltered, pursing his lips.

Painfully aware of the man's unease, Archer hurried to interrupt, "If you are referring to what you told me about yourself, Lieutenant, your secret is safe."

Malcolm's mouth tightened again, before he replied in a deep voice, "I have no doubt about it, Sir. But that's not all."

His dark-circled eyes suddenly looked so frail that Archer had a difficult time holding them.

"What I did... I hope you realise that..."

"Wait, Lieutenant," Archer interrupted again. "Let me say something." He heaved a deep breath and continued, a little awkwardly, "We all have our fears. I confess: for a moment out there I panicked. Just when I thought that everything was going to be ok, that damn mine..."

Malcolm's gaze was fixed intently in his, and it was clear the man was wondering what he was getting at. Archer grimaced. "When you pulled out your oxygen tube," he went on, "I got mad at you. The thing is, I was really furious with myself because... Hell, because I was losing control of the situation and I wasn't prepared to fail."

"Captain, the situation was hardly your fault, it wouldn't have been a failure," Malcolm said in puzzlement.

"Losing a man _is_ a failure, for a Captain. No matter what." Finally giving in to his tiredness, Archer dropped to sit on the chair that was near the biobed. "When that damn mine rearmed, I was afraid that I would have to cut you loose for the good of the ship," he went on. "But I couldn't make the decision, my mind kept looking for another way out, and yet I was well aware that every minute that went by was endangering the rest of the crew."

"Captain..."

Archer raised a hand. "What I'm trying to say, Malcolm, is I'm sorry I lost my temper and took it out on you. You did what you did to save the ship and take that impossible decision out of my hands, and it was a hell of a brave thing to do."

Malcolm's brow creased again, this time not in confusion but in a grimace of emotional discomfort. He lifted a hand and pressed two fingers on his eyes, virtually hiding his face. "To be honest, Sir, I'm not certain that's all it was," he murmured in a voice so low and taut that Archer almost missed the words. "In a desperate situation death can seem the easier way out."

Archer restrained himself from reaching out to touch the arm of the man before him; he was sure Malcolm would be more embarrassed than comforted by the gesture. Instead he said with quiet conviction, "That's not what I saw. I saw an officer ready to prove his loyalty and carry out his duty to the sacifice of his own life."

Emotion flitted across what little Archer could see of Malcolm's features. At length the man lowered his hand. "Thank you, Captain," he said, managing to meet Archer's gaze. "But that doesn't alter the fact that I should have kept more faith and trusted you more, Sir."

"You were injured and scared, and drugged with painkillers. Your mind wasn't clear, Malcolm," Archer said, trying not to sound condescending. "And it _was_ a desperate situation." Shaking his head, he added, "Even I don't know how on earth I suddenly came up with the idea of using shuttlepod hatches as shields."

"An idea worthy of a fine Commanding Officer," was the low comment.

A tentative smile appeared on Malcolm's pale face, which made Archer's heart much lighter.

"Some good _has_ come out of all this, I suppose," he said after a moment, in an upbeat voice. With an amused frown he nudged, "Wouldn't you agree, Lieutenant?"

Malcolm shot him a wary look. "Sir?"

Archer shrugged. "Well, I still might wonder what your favourite book is, but we managed to get a better understanding of each other in a way that no breakfast would have ever accomplished." He gave his reticent Armoury Officer an open smile and received a wince in response.

"I'm afraid I can't bring myself to consider that a very positive thing, Sir," Malcolm said wryly. "After what I've told you out there, you definitely have a better understanding of me than I had hoped you ever would."

It was good to see that even after surgery and with a fever Malcolm could use his dry wit. Archer laughed softly. "Look, now that I know you better, I'll try to follow your advice in matters of security more, Lieutenant," he comforted him.

"Thank you, Captain. That's generous of you."

Malcolm's accent was fast losing its sharpness; in fact, his voice had the slur of someone who was losing his fight to remain awake. His eyelids finally yielded to gravity.

"But don't expect me to change too much," Archer put in, before the man could slip away. "I still think the life of a single person is worth enough to balance out almost any sort of risk."

There was a low groan and Malcolm's eyes cracked open again. "Frankly, Sir, that's not very reassuring," he drawled, adding as an afterthought, "Though this morning at breakfast I would have found it even less so."

Archer's mouth curved up in another warm smile, but Malcolm didn't see it, for the grey eyes had already closed again. Silence fell, broken only by the feverish man's slightly laboured breathing. Archer watched his features slowly relax into sleep.

"We haven't lost anyone," he said under his breath. He hoped Malcolm's rest would be dreamless – or that he'd be taken to some place other than the hull of a starship. "Sleep well, Lieutenant," he murmured, getting up.

"Why don't you let me give you a little something so you can get some rest too, Captain, hmm?" a well-known voice behind him said.

Archer turned. "Hey, boy," he said to Porthos, bending to scratch the beagle, who had run up to him. "I trust the Doc hasn't given you any cheese, has he?"

"Of course not. You haven't answered my question."

Rising again, Archer looked for a long moment at the hypospray in Phlox's hands, before shifting his gaze to the assessing blue eyes of the Denobulan. "I'll be fine, Doc, thank you," he said, straightening his shoulders. "I'd better find Trip and see if he has that damage report ready. Come on, Porthos."

With a reassuring smile of good-bye Archer left, followed by his faithful friend.

Time to put what had happened behind him, and think ahead. This was no time to sleep: like his Armoury Officer, his ship was injured.

There would be no rest yet for the man in command.

THE END


End file.
